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<title>A Somebody I'm Longing to See by CrescentFresh (WileyWendyMoore)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700098">A Somebody I'm Longing to See</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WileyWendyMoore/pseuds/CrescentFresh'>CrescentFresh (WileyWendyMoore)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Office (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Closeted Bisexuality, Gen, Healing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Self-Acceptance, Vulnerability</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:20:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WileyWendyMoore/pseuds/CrescentFresh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the most effective therapeutic things I do is write little vignettes and scenes with characters I resonate with. They start out low/no canon, and sometimes that's enough to work out whatever I need. Sometimes though! it's better to fuss with them and try to make them even a little more canon. So this might not really scan with anyone else, but I was fond of it and know that my vision of the Nard-Dog occasionally does mesh with how others see the character!</p><p>Definitely inspired by Barenaked Ladies' "What a Good Boy" and Frank Sinatra's version of "Someone to Watch Over Me," and a lifelong preference of self-damaging discomfort over admittance of vulnerability!</p>
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<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Somebody I'm Longing to See</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andrew Bernard had a nightly ritual.</p><p>He had told them he went to anger management, and that was true. What he didn't tell them about was the voluntary commitment. There were a lot of things Andrew didn't tell other people, and that was why he ended up punching walls, or mirrors. That was how he ended up with alcohol poisoning.</p><p>At night, after dinner and television and any trace of the outside world had left, he would shower. Carefully, thoroughly. Tenderly, like hand-washing silk. As he dried himself and considered his own reflection, he told himself, "You're a good boy." At first, it was too vulnerable, and embarrassing. Then strange yet comforting, so he only thought it. Eventually he mouthed the words, reading his own lips. Finally, he could say the words out loud while looking himself in the eyes.</p><p>He liked this - he liked being squeaky clean, and well-groomed. He wanted to be *pretty.* Not so much - feminine - but a scrubbed, neat young man who could make you smile just by being in the room.</p><p>Clean, warm pajamas, a plush robe, slippers, face shaved smooth and rubbed with moisturizer, "You're a good boy."</p><p>The stay hadn't been bad, really. In fact, it was nice, easy. Andrew could make his racing thoughts slow, begin to pick individual thoughts out and ignore the noisy, staticky ones. An exceptionally kind counselor had asked him, after he berated himself for his explosive episodes, "Drew, *are* you angry? Is anger what you're feeling?" And they had sat together in silence, and without making eye contact Andrew had finally replied, "No, I uh - I feel...sad? Then, that's - then I get angry."</p><p>No phone calls, orangewood sticks and oil on his cuticles, hair oil, lip balm, "You're a good boy."</p><p>The best nights - the nights that sometimes left him drowsy and removed from time, the nights he told himself he would set up appointments to talk about - he could slip outside his body, and watch someone else tell him, "You're a good boy." He tried to let the shape of this person appear, try to see the warm, kind, sexy woman saying the words he wanted to hear without judgement. No one in particular. The thought alone was reassuring.</p><p>A little deeper down where it was easier for Andrew to be he honest with himself, the shape was sometimes masculine. A male shape, tall, big enough to have arms that wrapped all the way around Andrew and kept him safe. An embrace when the bitter taste in his throat began to rise, pinning his arms to his side, wrestling him down and redirecting, whispering, "You're a good boy."</p><p>Andrew slumped in his chair, staring at the ceiling, hazily aroused and not really *wanting* to do anything about that. He opened a window to give his dizzied head some fresh air, and sat back down with his banjo. Picking softly, quietly, at just before two in the morning, he sang to himself.</p><p>"I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood - I know I - could always be good - To one who'll watch over me"</p>
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